


Took My Love (took it down)

by bookstoreromantic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstoreromantic/pseuds/bookstoreromantic
Summary: The tight-knit town of Storybrooke isn’t exactly the world’s most ideal place to be licking one’s wounds, but even a town where everyone knows everyone else (and their business) can still provide the odd surprise. (Or, the Tortured Musician fic featuring ex bartender Emma Swan.)





	1. i

            Unlike her son, Emma hasn’t made the long drive from New York to Storybrooke in over three years. Not since she packed up their things and left town two days after Ruth’s funeral. It’s been easier in the years since to just put Henry on a bus at the start of summer vacation and send him off to spend two weeks with his uncle. To claim being too busy or not able to get the time off work when David asks why she doesn’t come along. Going back now feels a lot like giving up. And it probably is, in a way.

            She’s spent so long being determined to make it on her own. Just her and her kid in the big city, living an unglamorous life but having grand adventures while they do it. David hadn’t been happy when she’d picked up and left after his mother died and she doubts he’s going to be much happier when he learns the reason behind her unannounced visit. If she hadn’t been so completely blindsided she might have been able to come up with a different plan, but Henry was already packed and ready to go and Storybrooke, well…

            Storybrooke is the closest she’s ever gotten to having a home.

            Not that she has any desire to move back permanently. _This is temporary_ , she repeats to herself over and over on the drive. _Just a chance to clear her head_. There are too many ghosts in the sleepy seaside town to make her ever think about moving back. Too many mistakes. Too many things she should’ve done and words she didn’t say and the chance is gone now, there’s no going back and starting over.

            New York was supposed to be the place where she could figure her shit out in anonymity. Instead it’s sent her from the frying pan to the fire — running away from her adult mistakes and back to the small town that had picked apart each and every one she’d made as a teenager and a too-young mother.

            Emma knows full well that she’ll never be able to repay the kindness that Ruth Nolan showed her when she bailed her pregnant, runaway self out of jail and hired her a lawyer. She’d barely been able to take care of herself and her son back then, let alone chip away at the debt she owed her foster mother. And then a brain aneurysm stole her away from them, killing any ideas Emma might have had of being able to make it up to her in some far off, misty future where her life wasn’t a complete mess.

            It’s still a mess. It’s always going to be a mess, she thinks. But she’s picked herself up in Storybrooke once before. Maybe these two weeks will give her the chance to do it again.

            Her twelve year-old is dead asleep in the back of the bug by the time they cross the town line and Emma takes a deep breath, guiding the car along the winding forest roads until they finally turn onto Main Street. It’s too late now to throw herself on David and Mary Margaret’s hospitality so she parks the car just outside of Granny’s and kills the engine, counting down silently from five as Henry starts to stir.

            “Are we here?” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

            Emma smiles, remembering how she used to drive the town’s empty roads at night back when he was a baby, hoping against hope that this time he wouldn’t wake up when the engine shut off.

            “We’re here,” she says, reaching back to ruffle his hair. He grumbles and tries to swat her hand away and she laughs as she opens her door. “I’m gonna go get us a room. Grab the bags from the trunk?”

            “Yeah, okay.”

            Emma smiles at him again before getting out of the car and heading up the walkway. She might still be a mess, but she must have done something right to wind up with such a genuine and laidback kid. Henry had barely even batted an eye when she told him things were over with Walsh and would it be okay if she joined him in Storybrooke this year, maybe? He’d just given her a hug and asked if she was okay then promised to make sure their vacation together was ‘epic.’

            Emma isn’t okay. She’s furious. And humiliated. And furious over feeling humiliated. But Henry worries too much about her happiness to start with, he doesn’t need to know that she got taken for a fool.

            Neither does David, for that matter. Not crashing at the Nolan house means she has another few hours to figure out what stripped down version of events she’ll give to her over-protective foster brother.

            She doesn’t need help, no matter how well-intended it may be. She just needs to get herself together and get out. That’s the plan. The trick will be in not letting the parts of Storybrooke that are wrapped around her heart cut too tight. 

* * *

            It’s a beautiful day in Storybrooke, the irksome voice on the radio alarm informs him, and Killian couldn’t care less. He has no idea how much he drank the night before — his nightly habit tends to operate on a sliding scale of reasonable to whatever’s worse than binge drinking. To his credit, he doesn’t black out as much since Liam brought him to Storybrooke (he agreed to come help with the store, he’s not going to completely let his brother down when he needs him) but having work to do during the day does nothing to make the nights any easier.

            Nights are for her. Night was when they used to stay up until dawn working together, playing with rhythms and melodies and lyrics until the song came alive. Night was when they’d be up on stage with the boys, playing a set or two or three at whatever bar would have them and telling themselves that this one would be their break. Night was when they’d fall into bed together, trying in vain to keep quiet in cheap motels with thin walls. All of his best memories with Milah happened at night and so night is when he drowns for missing her.

            It’s been over half a year since she died. He doesn’t know who he is anymore without her.

            _One more day_ , he tells himself. One more day manning the cash and then he can do whatever the hell he likes with his Saturday night. Killian swings his legs over the side of the bed to get up and knocks over an empty beer bottle in the process. It rolls across the room until it hits the wall but he ignores it, along with all the others that sit scattered about the studio apartment. It’s not like anybody sees the place to care that it’s a mess. His brother let him the flat above the shop after one too many drunken nights crashing at his place with his sick wife and eleven year-old son in the house. But so long as he shows up to work to open on time, doesn’t drink on the job, and joins them for family dinners — irritatingly pleasant affairs where nobody talks about Elsa’s chemotherapy or admits that Killian is still a grieving, drunken mess — he’s mostly left to his own devices.

            To be honest, he’s not so sure if that’s a good thing. But his brother has his own family to worry about and Killian’s penchant for public intoxication when he first came to town has not exactly endeared him to the locals.

            He showers quickly, the cool water clearing the last of the sleep from his addled and hung over brain. The jeans are the same as he’s been wearing all week but he pulls on a clean shirt for appearance’s sake. Breakfast is a couple slices of toast slathered in peanut butter and washed down with orange juice — _the same bloody thing seven days a week_ , he broods but he doesn’t care enough to bother making something else. Killian locks up and heads downstairs, entering the shop from the back. He flicks on the lights, starts the coffee, and unlocks the door right at nine am sharp.

            Atlantic Twine & Net has been a Storybrooke fixture for over forty years, a commercial fishing supplies store with a prime location on Main Street right next to Granny’s Diner. His brother kept the name when he bought the place awhile back and has done his part over the years to keep Storybrooke’s various fish ‘n chips restaurants well-stocked with local fare. Fishing’s not exactly Killian’s area of expertise, but he’s been at it for a few months now and most everyone who comes in knows what they want already. Liam used to join him for a few hours in the middle of the day but Erik is out of school now and no boy wants to spend their summer vacation stuck at their father’s work. Killian loves his brother, he really does, but the job is dull and repetitive and kills whatever desire to play is still left in him.

            When Liam asked him to come to Storybrooke and help out while Elsa underwent treatment Killian initially stayed in their guest room, an arrangement which led to a series of nasty fights as Liam urged him to move past his grief. His older brother disagreed with seemingly every choice that Killian had made — leaving the band and quitting music, letting the bottle get the better of him, letting his life fall apart over a woman who’s been gone now almost longer than he ever had her to begin with.

            But Liam has a son. He’s got no bloody choice but to keep it together despite his wife’s illness. And Killian, well… falling apart is the only thing he’s good at anymore. 

* * *

            To admit that it feels strange waking up alone would imply that she slept much at all after checking into Granny’s and collapsing on the lumpy mattress. She’d managed to doze in front of the tv for a bit when they first got in, but as soon as she’d actually brushed her teeth and gotten ready for bed her brain had decided that it preferred to be awake. Preferred to turn each and every moment from the last two years over in her head and try to pinpoint all the signs that she’d missed. There must have been clues, nobody is that good of a con artist. But Walsh had been sweet and attentive and so _good_ to her and Henry.

            _He could afford to be good_ , she thinks bitterly. He was stealing from her after all.

            Throwing off the covers with a groan, she grabs the spare pillow and flings it over at Henry, hitting him in the face with a satisfying thump. Her son jumps awake with an indignant shout and Emma grins.

            “Get up, kid. We need to get to breakfast.”

            The promise of food perks him up and he swings his legs over the side of the bed to pick the pillow up off the floor and throw it back at her. “Granny’s?”

            “What else? Come on, we’ve got to get moving if we’re gonna beat your uncle and Mary Margaret there.”

            Saturday morning breakfast at Granny’s has been a Nolan tradition since well before Emma first came to Storybrooke and she doesn’t expect David to start breaking that tradition any time soon. She and Henry probably spent more time at the diner than anywhere else while they were still living in Storybrooke and stepping inside brings back a rush of memories. Nothing has changed in the past three years, from the faded checkerboard floor to the old vinyl-covered booths. Granny used to love to talk about how she was going to spruce the place up but it was just one of those small town refrains. Like Leroy always being grumpy, or Dr. Hopper always taking the same route at the same time for his dog’s afternoon walk. They may as well be civic institutions.

            It makes her wonder if her initials are still carved into the underside of the table in the back, or if they’ve been covered up by discarded gum. Neal had carved the two pairs of letters as they sat and drank milkshakes and plotted their escape from town. She can still remember the heady feeling when he’d taken her hand and guided her as she traced the letters and the heart that encircled them and has to shake her head at the thought. Leaving town and going to the big city was the refrain of half of Storybrooke’s teenage population, after all, not just her and Neal.

            Henry heads straight to what she assumes is still David’s usual table and she slides in next to him so that they’re both facing the door and can see her foster brother’s face when he walks in.

            “Do you think Mary Margaret will cry when she sees us?” Emma asks, leaning in conspiratorially.

            “Definitely. You know they’re gonna want us to go stay with them, right?”

            She snorts. “Four people living in that loft? I think we’re better off sticking with Granny’s, don’t you?”

            “Yeah, probably.” He sounds fine with it but looks away with a frown and she narrows her eyes.

            “Hey,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “I’m sure you can have a sleepover or two while we’re here.”

            Henry nods but she can see him putting his face back on — the same way she does most mornings — and _shit_ , maybe her son isn’t as okay with the breakup as he wants her to think.

            “Speaking of sleepovers—”

            “ _Emma_?”

            Whatever Henry was about to say gets interrupted and they both turn to see her foster brother and his fiancée gaping at them from the doorway. Emma slides out of the booth with a grin and is almost immediately wrapped in a hug by David.

            “What are you doing here?”

            Emma just smiles into his shoulder for a moment before pulling away to hug Mary Margaret. “We thought we’d surprise you,” she says as Henry tackles his uncle.

            “This is definitely a surprise,” the other woman says, squeezing her hands before letting go. Emma doesn’t miss the small frown when she notices the diamond missing from her ring finger but ignores it in favour of leading them all back into the booth.

            “What time did you get in at?” David asks. He’s barely sat down before Ruby comes around with his coffee and Emma waves a hand to brush off the question.

            “Late, we didn’t want to be a bother.”

            “Mom dumped Walsh,” Henry chimes in helpfully and she scrunches her face up in distaste.

            “What happened?”

            Emma shakes her head. The last thing she wants is for David to get his hackles up. “It’s not important. I just thought a change of scenery would be a good idea for a little while.”

            He opens his mouth to argue but Mary Margaret steps in instead. “You’re welcome to stay with us, you know,” she offers. “We might have only been expecting Henry, but we’d love to have you both. We can set up the air mattress, or maybe—”

            Emma shoots her son a look out of the corner of her eye and he smirks. “We’re good, but thank you.”

            David looks like he wants to question her again — she can just see them all piling up on the tip of his tongue. Are you staying the full two weeks? You always said you couldn’t get time off work, why is it okay now? Why did you leave the man who you were planning to marry? And she takes a deep breath.

            “Should we order? Let’s order. Who’s having pancakes?” 

* * *

            _Bloody hell_ is he glad to be closing up shop for the day.

            The thing about running a store in a small town is that most days are the same and the only ones that are any different are the ones where something goes wrong. Killian had spent most of the morning tracking down a missing shipment from one of their suppliers and the rest of the day fending off Leroy’s complaints about their lack of his favourite hoochie lure.

            (He swears, if he hears the word _hoochie_ one more time today…)

            It’s not the sort of day that leaves him wanting to go over to his brother’s, but family dinners were part of the deal they made when Killian took over the flat above the store so he has little choice. Liam likes to keep an eye on him, and he seems to believe that Killian would subsist purely on rum if not for his nightly, unappetizing attempts to sop up the booze in his stomach.

            His brother took over household cooking duties once Elsa started chemotherapy, setting out to recreate the food of his and Killian’s youth. Which would be fine if he didn’t stubbornly misremember said youth. Despite Liam’s claims at being a great cook _(“I raised Killian, didn’t I? He’s strong and healthy enough, if you ignore the last year.”_ ) it was Killian who had manned the kitchen growing up. Liam worked to buy the food, but he never got anywhere close to actually putting it on the table.

            Which means that nearly every night since he’s been in town, Killian has gotten to enjoy poorly cooked dinners and a brother who shuts him down every time he offers a suggestion.

        Tonight, of course, is no different. Erik eagerly provides the conversation, detailing grandiose plans for his summer vacation, but Killian’s in no mood to show interest and watching Elsa push food around her plate turns his stomach. He pushes his chair back from the table about halfway through the meal, setting his plate on the counter with a clang and leaving the kitchen. He means to just take a minute, just a moment to himself away from everyone aggressively ignoring how _not fine_ they all are. He just needs to get the tightness out of his chest before he goes back, makes his apologies, and makes his escape.

            He’s barely left the room before he hears someone following and that tight feeling turns to frustration before he can tame it.

            “Uncle Killian! Uncle Killian, are you leaving already?”

            “Aye, lad,” he says, tamping it down as best he can and grabbing his coat off the back of the couch. “What is it you want?”

            “I was hoping maybe you could teach me how to play guitar tonight. Dad said I’m old enough now, I can use his old one.”

            The request makes Killian stop dead in his tracks and he turns to look from his nephew to the doorway where Liam is standing watching them.

            “You put him up to this, then?” he asks, raising his chin to address his brother and ignoring the bouncing eleven year-old in between them.

            Liam frowns and sets a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go back to the table and finish eating with your mum, yeah?”

            The change in the boy is immediate and they both watch him leave the room, suddenly fixated on his feet. Killian knows what’s coming next and already has a scowl ready when his brother turns and starts in on him.

            “Would it kill you to—”

            “Don’t pin this on me, brother,” he spits, cutting him off. “You know I don’t bloody play anymore. It’s not my fault that you went and put ideas in his head.”

            “No, you don’t play anymore. You don’t do much of anything anymore, do you?”

            Killian recoils but manages to keep from flinching at the barb. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “I ran into Leroy today, he said we were out of stock on quite a few things.”

            “Of course he bloody did. The man can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.”

            Because obviously it wasn’t enough that he’d spent hours trying to track down the order, despite the fact that it was Saturday and most businesses were closed. No, the town tattle-tale has to rat him out to his brother as if it’s something that’s even remotely in his control.

            “He shouldn’t have to keep his mouth shut, Killian!” Liam fumes. “What happened with the Golden Bait shipment?”

            “How the hell should I know? It never showed up! Some days it’s like this town doesn’t even bloody exist for all the problems I run into when suppliers try and deliver.”

            “Garth’s been selling to Atlantic Twine & Net since before I bought the store,” Liam says, crossing his arms. “Never had any problems with him in the past. If you’re not going to take this job seriously—”

            “So it’s my fault then?” Killian retorts. Liam doesn’t answer and he grinds his teeth, hand clenching at his side. “Right. Well, this has been fun,” he says, voice thick with false cheer. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, shall we?”

            Killian lets the door slam shut behind him and storms up the street back to his apartment. Jumping in the car he’s got parked around back, he turns the ignition and floors it down Main Street.

            He hates this bloody town. Hates everything about it and there’s no way he’s spending the evening at home, above the store that’s given him nothing but grief all day. Thankfully, tonight’s the one night he can leave and not have to worry about fucking up his life any more than it already is.

* * *

            Small towns have their benefits, Emma’s realized. And one of those is the ability to be in your pajamas at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, armed with snacks that you don’t have to share and settled in for a Mummy movie marathon. Henry’s traditional first-night-in-Storybrooke sleepover with John and Michael had proved the perfect excuse to not linger around the loft after dinner with David and Mary Margaret. She loves her foster brother, but constantly stepping around the topic of Walsh gets exhausting after a few hours.

            David used to be content to let her have her space — to this date they’ve had exactly one conversation about the Neal debacle, where he promised to both always have her back and to never bring it up again. But apparently when she moved away from Storybrooke it triggered all of his protective instincts, even the ones that usually tell him she can take care of herself.

            Emma didn’t come back to Storybrooke for an inquisition. She knows everyone has questions — she does too. She just needs a little more distance from it all before she can try to offer any answers.

            She needs to remember how to breathe with her armour on again.

            The door handle jiggles and Emma startles, eyes narrowing as she mutes the tv in time to hear a key being slid into the lock. She doesn’t know what kind of help Granny has hired in the time she’s been gone, but it’s way too late in the day for anyone to be changing sheets.

            “Do not disturb!” she calls out but it’s already too late. The door opens to reveal a dressed-to-the-nines Ruby Lucas, garment bag in hand.

            “Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought.”

            Emma groans and sets her popcorn aside, shoving the blankets off in order to get up. “Still abusing your master key, I see.”

            “I’ll have you know that it’s for emergencies. Which this clearly is. Here,” she says, holding out the arm with the garment bag. “Put this on, we’re going out.”

            Emma tilts her head to the side and crosses her arms over her rubber ducky pajamas. Ruby had been the perfect partner in crime as a teenager but once she had Henry wild nights out got traded for nights in with movie marathons and nail painting. “I’m not going out, Ruby. But you’re more than welcome to join me for movie night.”

            The other girl shakes her head. “No. No, not happening. You are better than this, Emma Swan. Is this what you would be doing on a Saturday night in New York?”

            “I would be working on a Saturday night in New York. This,” she counters, waving an arm back at the snack-covered bed, “Is a great night off. I have no more desire to go drink in a bar tonight than I do to go work in one.”

            “You’re letting him win, you know.”

            “Where would we even go?” Emma asks, switching tacks. “The Rabbit Hole closed down, I saw the sign.”

            “Rockland is like, a fifteen minute drive away. I will even be the designated driver, so long as we take your car ‘cause mine’s in the shop. Please, Emma,” she pleads. “I’ve missed you. And it’s been so long since I’ve had a proper wing woman. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

            Emma sighs and glances back at the tv and the bed where she’d been so comfortably ensconced just a couple minutes before. “Fine, give me the dress.”

            She pulls it out and gives it a quick once-over in hopes of finding an excuse to shoot it down but Ruby did well. The leather mini dress is in her size and it’ll show a lot of leg but at least her chest won’t be out on display. Ruby practically sashays past her to sit on the bed, hitting the old mattress with a bounce that makes the coils creak in protest.

            “Y’know,” Emma says, stopping at the doorway to the bathroom. “I’m surprised you haven’t re-opened the Rabbit Hole yourself. Weren’t you always talking about not waiting until you inherited Granny’s?”

            “I thought about it,” she replies, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing a piece up before catching it with her mouth. “But something like that I’d want a business partner for and I haven’t found the right person yet.”

            Emma knows a possible out when she sees one and she takes a few steps back into the room. “You know, I’ve worked in a lot of bars. I could give you some tips, if you want. We could get a bottle of wine, finish the snacks, enjoy some Brendan Fraser…”

            For a moment it seems like Ruby might be considering it but then she claps her hands and stands back up and Emma knows she’s lost. “That sounds like an awesome idea. For another night. But right now, you need to go and get changed and then let me fix your hair and make-up so that we can go out. Go!” she says, turning her around by the shoulders and punctuating it with a little shove.

            Emma rolls her eyes and flicks on the light in the bathroom. “It was worth a shot.”

            “It sure was,” Ruby agrees. “But you need this. Trust me.”

* * *

            _Venturing out to a bar was a horrible idea_ , he thinks, cursing the fact that his sudden urge to get out of Storybrooke has got him surrounded by the company of strangers all of whom are eminently more sociable than him. He picked the bar because it was closest to where he parked but he can grudgingly admit that it does has some atmosphere. And it’s busy enough on a Saturday night that the noise drowns out most of the demons the booze leaves behind. (One of the downsides to drinking somewhere other than his apartment — he can’t have more than one or two unless he wants to sleep it off in the car.)

            He used to play in similar pubs before he got the band together, when it was just him and his guitar going through a set list of covers with some original songs slipped in. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of picking it up again. Sometimes he even wishes he could. Back in those early days he sat on a stool with a beer at his feet and played for himself more than anyone else. Liam thinks that Killian doesn’t want to move on, but he’s wrong. It’s just that music changed for him as soon as he started working with Milah. She made him better. Made him a stronger artist in every way. He doesn’t know how to do on his own what they once did together, can’t even fathom writing songs without her as his partner. He’d always been a good lyricist, but Milah cut straight to the heart and gave his words a power that he’d never managed even with all of his tinkering.

            Nothing else could ever measure up. It’s far easier to just drink his way through the memories instead.

            The blonde on his right chokes on her drink, and it pulls his attention away from his thoughts and back to the little show that he’s been following for the past fifteen minutes or so.

            “That’s awful!” she exclaims, pushing the glass away from her. “You call that a cocktail?”

            Killian can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as he tries not to be obvious about his eavesdropping. The woman and the barkeep have been a source of amusement since she took a seat next to him and apparently the would-be Romeo’s original creation does not meet the lady’s standards.

            “Something funny over there, buddy?”

            He shakes his head but can’t keep from needling the poor bloke. “Just glad I ordered something simple,” he says, raising his rum in salute.

            The blonde eyes him skeptically before rolling her eyes and turning back to her suitor. “You know what? Just give me what he’s having.”

            The new drink is delivered with a scowl and Killian offers his glass to clink. “You’ve crushed that poor man’s heart, love,” he remarks.

            “He’ll get over it,” she replies, touching her rum to his and taking a sip. He follows suit, turning in his seat to face her better.

            Killian can’t fault the bartender for making an attempt; she is absolutely stunning. Her hair tumbles in loose, long waves down her back and she’s wearing a tight leather dress that definitely didn’t come from any of the area’s meager retail offerings. He’s not had near enough alcohol to even consider making a pass at her, but there’s something a little familiar in the set of her shoulders and the way that she holds herself and he’s got his hand out before he can think better of it.

            “I’m Killian,” he offers.

            She shifts on her stool to look at him, glancing down to his hand and then back up to his face. He waits patiently while she eyes him and can’t stop his smile when her hand slips into his.

            “Emma.”

* * *

            One drink turns to two turns to stepping outside for some fresh air and before he knows it they’re crammed into the back of her Volkswagen beetle, making out like damned horny teenagers. She’s straddling him, her dress riding up her legs, hair falling like a curtain around them. The whole world has narrowed down to how she feels and tastes and Killian runs his hands up her thighs to push her down further, needing to feel her pressed where he wants her most.

            Emma moans into his mouth when their hips meet and then breaks the kiss to shift a little, hiking the leather dress up to expose her ass completely. He bites at her earlobe when she settles back down, sucking it into his mouth as she sets an easy rhythm. Her nails dig into his shoulder, her other hand fisted in his shirt while she grinds against him and Killian sets to work kissing his way down her neck, paying attention to every little gasp and moan and sigh that she makes.

            She’s fucking glorious. And he’s never going to see her again so he doesn’t hold anything back. He licks and nips and sucks hard enough to bruise, squeezing her ass and rocking his hips up to meet her. Emma drags his face back to hers and _damn it_ but he wants to touch all of her. The leather is unbearably sexy but it covers too much of her chest for his liking. Killian traces the line of her underwear instead, urging her up a bit higher onto her knees and letting out a groan when he finds her soaked through her panties. He pushes the material aside and trails a finger up through her wet until he reaches her clit, softly circling the nub before sliding a finger into her.

            Emma gasps against his lips, her forehead pressed to his. “More.”

            He’s happy to oblige, adding a second finger and twisting his wrist to maximize his range of motion in the cramped space. He keeps the same rhythm that she’d set earlier, pumping his fingers into her while brushing his thumb against her clit with each thrust. Her nails rake down his chest, but the bug is too tight for her to reach where he’s hard and aching and she curses in frustration. Killian just chuckles against her skin and bites down on her shoulder.

            Emma gives up with a moan and starts to rock into the thrusts of his hand. “Fuck, yes,” she mutters. Her breath hitches as he curls his fingers inside of her and then, “Shit, don’t stop.”

            She’s close, her core clenching around his fingers and it’s enough to make his control snap. He needs to feel more, needs to see her come apart above him. Killian grinds out a curse and abandons rhythm in favour of speed. He catches her lips in a brutal kiss, squeezes her breast roughly through the dress until the moment she pulls away with a gasp. Emma trembles around him, her head rolling back as she rides out her high and he feasts on the sight.

            _She’s a bloody goddess_ , he thinks, gently removing his hand. Killian holds the two fingers up to eye level, wishing that he had more light so he could admire the slick coating of her release. Emma smirks down at him and then lowers her head, sucking his fingers clean and he bites back a groan even as his other hand grips her hip, pulling her back down to him.

            He can taste her when she kisses him and his tongue seeks hers hungrily. He’s just about to go back for more when an ambulance passes by and Killian stiffens up involuntarily. The haze of lust clears without warning in spite of Emma’s hands sliding down his chest on their way to his belt.

            “I wasn’t exactly planning on this,” she says, kissing a line along his jaw as she works at his pants. “Do you have any —”

            “No,” he manages, hoping she’ll mistake the strain in his voice for arousal. A cacophony of sirens are going off in his head and he fights to push them away, to stay in the present with the gorgeous woman who’s on top of him.

            It’s a losing battle though, always has been.

            “That’s okay,” Emma murmurs, her voice full of promise. “There are other things we can do.”

            He stills her hands when she jerks the belt open and her eyes jump up to meet his.

            Killian swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. “Perhaps another time.”

            “Seriously? Because I don’t mind.”

            He shifts underneath her and forces a crooked smile which he knows comes off as more of a wince but he can’t find it in himself to be worried about the impression he’s leaving when his heart is hammering in his chest and the sirens won’t stop blaring and it’s too tight in the car, he needs to get out out out. Needs to get to _her_.

            Emma practically falls off his lap and onto the seat beside him and he grabs for the door without thinking, scrambling out of the car and sucking cool night air into his lungs.

            “Hey, are you alright?”

            He’s bolted almost halfway across the tiny lot already but he turns around when she calls after him, her blonde hair falling around her face as she pokes her head out of the half-open door.

            “Aye,” he croaks. “Goodnight.”


	2. ii

            He takes a cab home and makes for the kitchen as soon as he’s in the door, pulling open all the cupboards until he finds what he’s looking for — the full bottle of whiskey he picked up the last time he re-stocked his liquor supply. Killian takes it with him to the couch and doesn’t bother with pacing himself, willing the alcohol to do its work. He’ll get no rest otherwise, his mind an angry mess of Milah’s screams and Emma’s moans and _bloody hell_.

            It takes nearly half a bottle before he passes out and the sun is bouncing off the flat’s greige-ish walls by the time he finally rouses.

            He feels like shit. His head is pounding and his throat is dry but it’s not enough to make him forget any of the night before. To wipe away the memory of the stunning blonde he’d held in his arms, the way she’d kissed him like she was trying to prove a point, how he’d been so close to losing himself in her.

            How it had all gone to shit once he’d heard the ambulance.

            Killian gets himself some water and re-settles on the couch, stretching out and resolving to wait until the nausea passes before he figures out how to get his car back to town. He’ll probably wind up paying the garage to tow it back but he can’t even think about setting anything up just yet. It’s not like he’s in a rush. He’s quite certain that he’s not going to leave the couch until he has to open the store on Monday.

            He spends the afternoon alternating between napping and watching old movies on tv. Killian knows he should shower but he can still smell her — _Emma_ — on him and he can’t bring himself to wash it away. Kissing her was the most alive he’d felt in ages. Perhaps all this time he should have been trying to fuck his pain away instead of drowning it.

            When Liam lets himself in sometime in the evening he startles awake, jolting up and pushing the hair out of his face.

            His brother just stands and regards him from the doorway. “You missed dinner.”

            Killian scowls as Liam enters the flat. He’s in no bloody mood for another lecture. “I’m sorry,” he drawls. “Did your culinary skills improve in my absence?”

            Liam frowns at him but heads for the kitchenette with a tinfoil-wrapped package that he assumes are leftovers. “You’d better hope so,” he says. Closing the fridge door, he looks around the apartment with disdain. “Bloody hell, Killian. I gave you this place so you could have your privacy, not so you could trash it.”

            “You gave it to me so I’d be out of your hair,” he argues, standing from the couch as his brother starts rinsing out the empties that litter the counter. If they’re going to have this fight again, best to get it done with quickly. “I only came to this sodding town because you asked me to. You want me to leave? Say the word.”

            “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to _try_.”

            Killian rolls his eyes. “Are you never going tire of giving the same bloody speech nearly every week? You asked me to come and help with the store and that’s what I’m doing. The rest of my life is none of your damn business.”

            “Of course it’s my business!” Liam explodes, slamming a bottle down on the counter so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break. “You’re my little brother, it’s always going to be my business!”

            “Worry about your wife, Liam,” he sneers. “Worry about your son. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Killian yanks open the fridge door and grabs a beer, twisting off the cap. “Always am, eventually.”

            His brother watches him as he takes a swig with the same look on his face that he used to see on their father all the time. Anger mixed with just enough disappointment to make you feel like it’s your fault. The difference being, of course, that it is his fault now, whereas their father was an abusive shit who blamed his sons for the crumbling state of his marriage. Liam is twice the man that Brennan ever was; if anything, it’s Killian who inherited the Jones temperament, his anger getting the better of him more times than he can count. Which is probably why it’s always a shock when he sees flashes of it in his brother.

            Killian stares down the ghost of their father like he used to do the man himself and eventually Liam’s shoulders drop. Shaking his head and turning away, he takes another beer from the fridge and walks over to the couch. Killian hesitates a moment but follows, sitting down next to him but keeping his eyes on the television while his brother rests his elbows on his knees and sighs.

            “I asked you here because I wanted us to help each other. I need to believe that we can get through this.”

            Killian shuts his eyes for a long moment after the admission. “Jones boys can get through anything,” he says finally, resigned. “It’s just rarely pretty.”

            Liam snorts. “Cheers to that, brother.”

            He tips his beer to his and they both drink, a more comfortable silence settling between them.

            “I saw Michael Tillman bring your car back earlier,” Liam says after a minute or so. “You get kicked out of another pub last night?”

            _He is never going to bloody live down getting banned from Granny’s._

            Killian shakes his head. He was in no state to drive but his brother doesn’t need to know that. “Didn’t even get drunk,” he answers. “Just didn’t want to risk a ticket from the good Sheriff Nolan.”

            “When you didn’t come to dinner I assumed you were hungover still.”

            “Oh no, I got home, _then_ I got drunk.”

            “Pretty raven-haired lass hit on you again?”

            “A blonde, actually. And I’m fairly certain I started it.”

            Liam’s brows pop up in surprise. “Aye, blondes are dangerous,” he says, leaning back into the couch cushions. “They sneak up on you.”

* * *

            Emma takes her seat at the table in the loft and wonders from looking at the feast just how long Mary Margaret has been itching to do a real Sunday dinner. It’s the middle of June and the loft doesn’t have any air conditioning, but that hasn’t stopped her future sister in-law from making a pork roast complete with gravy, mashed potatoes, and three different veggie options. And if the rumours are true, there’s blueberry pie stashed away for dessert.

            She hasn’t had a meal like it since Ruth passed away and Emma quickly shoves a forkful of meat in her mouth to cover up the pang in her chest. Her foster mom had started family dinners when Emma came back from Phoenix in an attempt to make their lives normal again for Henry’s sake — although she’s still not sure what it is that infants are supposed to gain from everyone else eating a roast for dinner. Still, the tradition had stuck for almost nine years. She hadn’t realized she’d missed it when they moved to New York.

            “So, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, passing the beans and carrots over to David. “How was your night out with Ruby?”

            Emma sputters on her wine and sets the glass down to wipe her hand on her napkin. “Uh, it was fun. I think she met someone, so it was good.”

            “Oh, that’s nice.” She waits a beat and then, “Did you?”

            Emma bites her tongue on, _do you mean did I almost have sex in the back seat of the bug until the guy freaked out and suddenly couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, to the point where he literally ran away from me?_

            “Nope!” she squeaks, smiling brightly in hopes that it’s enough to hide her flush of embarrassment. “It’s a little quick to be looking right now, don’t you think?”

            “Speaking of looking,” David says, too casually for it to be anything but a segue into her breakup. He knows she knows it too, because next thing he’s holding up his hand in concession. “I’m not going to ask what happened with Walsh. You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But do you guys have a place to stay when you go back to New York? Do you need any help finding something?”

            Emma’s eyes drop to her plate and she forks a carrot, dragging it through her mashed potatoes to buy some time. She’d made promises to Henry on the drive up of this being the start of a new adventure but they hadn’t really talked about it any more since then. And as far as her son or anyone else knows, she still has a job in New York waiting for her when they get back.

            “I… I was thinking we might go someplace else actually. Maybe Boston, or Philly, or someplace a little warmer?”

            She glances over at Henry to gauge his reaction in time to see him go from slouched and shoveling food in his mouth to sitting ramrod straight in his chair within an instant. Emma smiles and watches all the gears turn in his head while he chews.

            Finally he swallows and sets his fork down on the edge of the plate before turning around in his chair so that he’s facing her. “What if we just stayed here?”

            Emma’s brows pinch together and a nagging feeling takes hold in her gut. Henry had been so excited about moving to New York a few years ago — had called it a heroic quest and given it one of his secret codenames. And he’d loved exploring the city with her whenever she had time off. She’d thought for sure he’d be just as excited about moving now as he had been then.

            “I don’t know, kid,” she starts, knowing she has to try and dampen the idea but Henry leaps in before she can dig up an argument against it.

            “What about just for the summer? Choosing a new city, that’s a big decision. We should do research together and find a place that’s perfect.”

            “That’s not a bad idea actually,” David chimes in and Henry spins in his chair to face his uncle. “I’d sure sleep better knowing you’ve got something set up wherever it is that you go.”

            Emma hasn’t had to deal with her son and foster brother ganging up on her for three years and she’s unprepared for the full weight of their puppy dog eyes turned on her. She turns to try and appeal to Mary Margaret — even the scales a little bit —  but the other woman just meets her eyes with a knowing smirk that makes Emma suspect this ganging up is a regular occurrence during Henry’s visits.

            “I can’t just take the whole summer off work,” she argues. Very reasonably, she thinks.

            David waves a hand and goes back to systematically stabbing his green beans. “You’d quit your job to change cities anyway and I have the budget for an administrative assistant at the sheriff’s station.”

            _I’ve already quit my job_ , she thinks. Going back to New York has never been in her plan. “Preferential treatment for your foster sister could work against you in the next election, you know.”

            He shrugs. “It’s just for the summer. I’ll clear it with the mayor, she owes me one anyways.”

            “Please, Mom?”

            Emma still wants to argue. David’s done enough and given up enough for her in his life, he doesn’t need to be calling in favours now too. But Henry’s so earnest and excited and she doesn’t… She’s uprooted their lives so abruptly. And it’s her fault for not seeing what Walsh was doing behind her back, for bringing him into their lives in the first place. Maybe she owes it to her son to plan their next steps a little more carefully.

            “Okay, fine. But I’m not working at the station. If I can find something else to tide us over for the summer, then we’ll stay.”

* * *

            There’s a yellow bug parked in front of Granny’s.

            Killian stares at it for far longer than he should. But it’s hard to look away when for the second night in a row his dreams featured flashes of blonde hair and a woman who was always just out of reach. He stands for so long — _there’s no way it’s hers, it must be a coincidence_ — that he forgets he’s stepped into the road until Leroy honks, swerving to avoid him as he drives by. Cursing under his breath and shaking himself out of his stupor, Killian forces himself away from the little vintage car and sprints over to the bakery across from the shop.

            His mind must still be comparing the bug to his memories from Saturday night though, because as he pulls open the door to Storybrooke Country Bread he practically collides with a boy around his nephew’s age.

            “Henry! Watch where you’re going!”

            “Sorry!”

            “No worries, lad,” he says reassuringly, smiling down at the mop of brown hair before his eyes move up to the mother and — _Oh_.

            She’s dressed casually, just jeans and a t-shirt paired with some little black boots, but she’s just as gorgeous as she was in the leather dress and _bloody hell_ he is so screwed.

            Emma’s eyes go wide in recognition and he winces, scratching uncomfortably behind his ear. Whatever chance he might have had with her he surely blew when he panicked and fled and yet he can’t bring himself to regret suggesting they step outside.

            “Um, hi.”

            Killian wets his lips and puts on a tight smile. “Hello.”

            He’s never felt so awkward in his life and the boy is looking between the two of them with an expression that says he knows far more than he should and maybe Killian should just turn around, get his lunch someplace else. He can call Liam — no, his brother would tease him mercilessly if he found out that the Great Killian Jones had run away from a lass not once but twice. He’ll bribe Erik into bringing him a sandwich instead. Eleven year-old boys are always interested in taking bribes.

            He’s so caught up in his escape plan that he doesn’t realize he’s blocking the exit until Emma takes a step forward and gestures to the door.

            “We’re just going to, uh —”

            “Right!” he says, jumping out of the way. “Right, sorry. I just… sorry.”

            If she realizes that he’s apologizing for more than being in the way, she doesn’t comment on it, just shoots him a bemused sort of look as she ushers her son out of the bakery. Killian groans as soon as the door clicks shut behind them, closing his eyes to block out the absolute fuckery that is his life.

            Twice now he’s bungled run-ins with the only woman who’s piqued his interest since Milah. That is, of course, if you can call what they did in her car two nights ago a “run-in.”

            (God, that car. She must be staying at Granny’s and he can’t help but wonder how long it will be parked there, next door to where he lives and works, torturing him.)

            “She bought bear claws.”

            He’s startled out of his thoughts by Tink, who’s watching him from behind the counter with a face that says while she’s not outright laughing at him, it’s a near thing.

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “She bought bear claws. Said they were her favourite. Just in case you were wondering.”

            Killian blinks even as he tucks the information away. “I wasn’t.”

            “Right,” she drawls, clearly not believing him. “So, the usual then?”

            He fell hard for the bakery’s ready-to-eat quiche back when he was first exiled from Granny’s and manages to make it through the transaction and back to the store without embarrassing himself further. Part of him itches to find out more about his new neighbour — Storybrooke isn’t exactly known for its bustling tourism industry, after all. But that would mean either inserting himself into the small town gossip machine that’s so enjoyed picking him apart these last few months or asking his brother, both of which are abhorrent prospects. Liam can be a dullard at times but even he would be able to put the blonde at the bar together with the blonde from the bakery.

            Worse still would be if Elsa found out. Killian may be a miserable drunk half the time, but not even he has the heart to turn down his sister in-law’s more gentle brand of matchmaking. The fact that’s he’s actually interested only makes it worse.

            No, there’s nothing to do but suck it up, accept that she probably thinks him a fool, and pray to God that he doesn’t trip over his own feet should he see her again. It sounds great, as far as resolutions go. And if he could get her out of his mind for even just an hour it would sound a lot more convincing too.

* * *

            It takes Emma all of two days to land a job as the interim manager at Any Given Sundae. She’d scooped icecream back as a teenager the first year she came to Storybrooke and hadn’t exactly been looking to get into it again. But when Ingrid finds out that she’s looking for a job she practically falls over herself to offer Emma the position. Apparently she was supposed to spend two months in Norway visiting her sisters but her planned replacement got sick and pulled out and she was afraid she’d have to cancel the trip. Emma spends a couple days re-learning how to scoop the perfect ice cream cone and getting a feel for the business side of things and then she’s on her own.

            Somehow, very quickly, she’s wound up committed to this whole ‘Storybrooke for the summer’ plan… and everything that goes with it. So when Henry begs to be signed up for the house league soccer program even though the registration deadline was a month ago, she makes it happen. And when Mary Margaret requests (more like coerces) her help with wedding shopping, Emma goes along. Which is how she winds up following her future sort-of sister-in-law through each ribbon and bead and silk flower packed aisle of the local Crafts ‘n More on her lunch break.

            The school teacher’s plan to send each of her guests home with a handmade birdhouse is nice and all, she supposes, but if she gets roped into a favour decorating party later on she might have to reconsider staying in Storybrooke after all.

            “So this must be a little weird for you. Helping with wedding planning.”

            Emma stops running her fingers through the trays of tiny beads and frowns. _She’s helping plan a wedding now?_

            “Not really,” she answers carefully. “Walsh and I never got to that point.”

            “It’s okay if you had cold feet, you know. I know we only met Walsh the one time and that David can be… protective. But his heart’s always been in the right place and we only want what’s best for you and Henry.”

            “It’s not his heart that I’m worried about,” Emma says, half under her breath. Really, it’s a miracle that her foster brother ever got elected sheriff, given how many people he’s threatened to punch in the face.

            Mary Margaret has made a profession out of instilling life lessons in others and she’s half expecting to get one now but when the other woman doesn’t push any further Emma just sighs. The truth is she doesn’t know what’s best for her and her son. She’s never been able to see further than the problems that were always right in her face. The foster system doesn’t exactly create dreamers and long-term planners.

            “I didn’t want to get married,” she confesses. “I thought it was too soon. But I was happy and I didn’t want to lose him so we compromised. I would wear the ring, Henry and I would move in, and he’d never pressure me to set a date.”

            “But that changed? Once you were all living under the same roof?”

            “No, nothing changed. It was great. It was even better than it was before because I had someone to pick up after me. I started to think, y’know, maybe we _should_ get married. Not, like, immediately, but — we were going to go away for a couple days, while Henry was here with you guys, and I thought… maybe I could surprise him by picking a date.”

            “What happened?”

            It’s just them in the aisle and Mary Margaret has closed the distance between them but Emma still drops her voice to barely above a whisper.

            “When we moved in, Walsh told me that he’d already given post-dated cheques for the rent, that I could just give him my share in cash each month for now and then when the lease came up we’d put my name on it.” She fiddles with the stem of one of the fake flowers that Mary Margaret had been holding and takes a deep breath. “The day I left, the landlord came by looking for rent. He said that we were four months overdue. There were never any post-dated cheques, he’d just been stealing from me all that time.”

            “Oh, honey.” Mary Margaret takes her hands but doesn’t try to pry the flower from her grip, just gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze before saying the most stereotypical thing a small-town elementary school teacher can say to someone who’s been living in New York for the past three years. “Was it… drugs?”

            Emma can’t even begrudge her for it, she just shakes her head. “Gambling. It didn’t take much digging to find out and once I did I just — I had to get out of there.”

            Mary Margaret wraps her in a hug immediately and Emma takes a moment to make sure she’s not crying before pulling back.

            “Promise me you won’t tell David,” she says. “He never approved of Henry and I moving to New York. I don’t want to give him any more reason to —” Emma stops short of finishing her sentence, and takes a moment to reset and blink away the still-threatening tears. _Get a grip already, Christ_. “I just don’t want it to be a big thing again when we leave at the end of the summer.”

            “I won’t tell David, even though you know how I feel about keeping secrets. But, Emma, _you_ _should_. Your brother loves you, he’s not going to judge you for this.”

            “I don’t want anyone to know,” she insists. “Telling him’s not going to do anything but keep me thinking about it and I am so tired of thinking about it. I just need to find a way to… I just need to put it behind me.”

            Mary Margaret squeezes her shoulder and takes the poor mutilated silk flower out of her hands. “I think this summer is going to be good for you,” she says. “I think it might be just what you need.”

* * *

            He’s been dreaming of Milah lately. Actually _of her_ , not just of her death. Killian dreams of her laugh, of the way her hips moved when she sang, how her face lit up the first time he let her steal the pickle from his sandwich. He dreams of Milah and when his alarm goes off in the morning it doesn’t sound like sirens. It’s been almost a week now that he hasn’t needed rum to blanket the sound of twisting metal and screaming at night. He’s not sure what’s changed, but God, he’s willing to give almost anything to keep it from going back.

            It’s made his days easier too and while he may have so far escaped unsolicited commentary from his brother he knows the shift has not gone unnoticed. Still, there’s some hesitancy on Liam’s part to trust it, which is how Killian finds himself having a very different argument with him come Sunday afternoon.

            “Honestly, brother, it’s fine. I can take the lad.”

            “It’s not just taking him to the field, Killian. You have to stick around for the game. We’re on orange and popsicle duty this week.”

            “I think I can manage two coolers and an eleven year-old.”

            “You’re sure?”

            He sighs and picks up one of the ice chests from where it’s sitting on the table between them. “Go take your wife to the hospital, brother. I’ve got this.”

            Elsa and Erik come down the stairs and Liam nods, stacking the second cooler in his arms. “Uncle Killian’s going to take you to your football game,” he says to Erik, wrapping a shawl around Elsa’s shoulders and guiding her to the door. “Score a goal for your mum, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            Elsa kisses her son’s forehead and the door closes behind them and then it’s just Killian and his nephew for the first time, really, since he came to town, watching each other from across the house.

            “Well, lad,” he says, resting his chin atop the two coolers. “I’m going to need you to either take one of these or open up the car for me.”

            Elsa was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia back in February on what was, to hear his brother tell it, the coldest, most miserable day of any winter he’d ever seen. Milah had died a few months before and Killian’s not sure which Jones had been more of a mess when Liam hunted him down and brought him Storybrooke a few weeks later. He’s never prodded for details on his sister in-law’s treatment, but he knows that the initial induction therapy she’d gone through before his arrival had been successful and that the chemotherapy she’s been undergoing every month since is to try and stop it from coming back.

            It’s not his first bone marrow biopsy day, in other words, and he knows from experience that test days always put his nephew on edge. The first round of chemotherapy had been a difficult ordeal for everyone, and Liam had struggled mightily with Elsa in the hospital. Summer sporting events might not be in his regular job description but the entire reason Liam brought Killian to Storybrooke was so that the elder Jones could try and keep things as normal as possible for his boy. And in the summer, normal means football.

            It’s killing Liam to not be coaching this year on account of Elsa’s illness, and his brother has not taken the demotion to honorary assistant coach well. It’s only the second game of the season and Killian’s already sick of his brother’s grousing every time the new coach calls it ‘soccer.’ A far worse offense, in his opinion, is the team’s name. While neighbouring towns get to be Dragons and Knights and Gorgons, his nephew is stuck playing for the Storybrooke Snowmen — which doesn’t fit the theme at all, no matter how many ‘abominable’ adjectives are thrown around by parents attempting to soothe their children’s pre-pubescent egos.

            The high school field that’s been adapted for 9v9 play isn’t far and ordinarily he’d suggest they walk but with the two coolers the car is a must. The pitch brings back memories of Killian’s own youth and makes him think that he almost wouldn’t mind sticking around for another year to see Liam coach a fleet of lads as they adjust to the full-size playing field. He’s not set any plans beyond staying through the course of Elsa’s treatment, isn’t even sure if his presence would be welcome once Liam’s able to return to a regular work week. He’s not exactly been pleasant to be around, after all.

            But perhaps orange and popsicle duty will start to make up for that. Erik’s out of the car and joining his friends almost as soon as Killian pulls into the spot which means he gets to unload the Snowmen’s half-time and post-game snacks on his own. The chests aren’t heavy but they are cumbersome — Liam probably couldn’t have found bigger ones if he’d tried. He’s still trying to adjust the bulky coolers when he trips on the curb, nearly crashing into someone as he recovers his footing.

            “I’m sorry!” he calls out around the load in his arms. They’d swung wildly in his attempt to avoid a collision and he lifts them a little higher, trying his best to shuffle them back into position.

            The top one is removed from his hold and with his field of vision clear he suddenly finds himself staring at the very woman whose car has taunted him all week.

            Killian knows — _very well, thank you_ — that his mouth is hanging open and yet he can’t think of a single non-idiotic thing to say. A stammered “Uh...” is about all he manages.

            Emma seems as surprised as he is because almost immediately the cooler is placed back on top of the other one — nice and straight this time, mind you.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says brusquely, snapping him back to earth.

“Right,” he says. “Well, thank you.” Killian gives himself to the count of three before lowering the coolers to look but she’s already gone. He didn’t really expect otherwise given how she’d stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights but it stings nonetheless. He knows he let his issues fuck up their first encounter, but how much longer is he going to have to suffer through fumbling embarrassment over what was supposed to be a one-time thing?

            Killian shakes his head to clear it and makes his way towards the field, barely avoiding tripping over the curb a second time.

* * *

            David, Mary Margaret, and Ruby all tag along to watch Henry’s first soccer game and Emma manages to get through it without asking for the scoop on Killian, but it’s harder than she’d like to admit. She resists though, because she knows how Storybrooke works. The town loves an Emma Swan gossip and any amount of curiosity expressed on her part will get the whole rumour mill churning. She’s got a lot of suspicions, but all she’s sure of is that Killian’s been in town for less than a year and that’s only because Henry had no idea who he was when they bumped into him at the bakery.

            She’s got no business being curious. Except for the fact that the guy kissed her like his life depended on it last weekend and then ran away like she was about to kill him rather than suck him off. And really, if she’s going to be bumping into him all summer she should probably know what his deal is, if only so she can try and avoid sending him running into oncoming traffic next time and —

            Yeah, okay, fine. She’s curious. What can she say? Ruby was right. Going out the week before had gotten her mind off Walsh. Gotten her off, period. Really, _really_ successfully. Who could blame her for wanting a round two? Or three. Or just plain trying to finish round one, for that matter. A meaningless summer fling would be the perfect distraction from the rest of her personal life.

            Killian, on the other hand… mostly Emma just wishes she could tell if he’s nervous or terrified around her.

            “Hey, what’s Other Jones doing on popsicle duty?”

            Mary Margaret looks up from her crochet project and frowns. “Elsa must have a doctor’s appointment.”

            _Well, that’s interesting_ , Emma thinks. The Joneses moved to town around the time that she and Henry left so she doesn’t know all that much about them, but it gives her something to go on. (She’s heard about Elsa’s cancer diagnosis through the grapevine of course — she’d been Ingrid’s original replacement at Any Given Sundae so it’s a hot topic with her customers.)

            And if the way David is glaring across the field is any indication, Killian is not the same upstanding citizen that his — brother? Cousin? — has turned out to be.

            “Are we sure it’s _popsicles_ in that cooler?” her foster brother grumbles.

            Neither of her friends answer him but Mary Margaret hums and Ruby flips one of her pigtails dismissively over her shoulder. (She’d put mini pom-poms in them to come cheer Henry on and it’s the very definition of a look that only Ruby could pull off.) Before Emma can ask what town gossip she’s clearly missed out on Henry comes bounding over to the bleachers, sticky red popsicle juice only half wiped off his chin.

            “Hey, Mom, can I go over to Ava and Nicolas’ for dinner? Mr. Tillman said it was okay.”

            “What, you’re tired of Granny’s cooking already? I’m gonna tell her you said that, you know.”

            Henry rolls his eyes at her and she shoos him off with a laugh. Her kid is obviously lapping up their extended stay in Storybrooke and as much as she might long for the buffer he provides she can’t begrudge him all the time with his friends that he wants.

            What Emma wants, on the other hand…

            Well, she’s never been very good at answering that question.

            She winds up going for a walk on the beach after dinner, the setting sun lighting up the town behind her in reds and oranges and golds. Out on the water twilight is taking hold, turning the sky a deep shade of cerulean. Someone further up the beach has brought out a guitar, and curiosity has her making her way towards the familiar strains that she can’t quite place.

            She wants to make a choice. Emma fell into her relationships with both Neal and Walsh more by happenstance than anything else. They seemed like good ideas at the time but neither one was _her_ idea. If there’s one thing she’s ever chosen for herself it was moving to New York. But at the time running away from everything David had given her and everything she’d taken from him in return seemed like the only idea there ever could be. She’s missed him, she’s finally admitted to herself this past week, but she left for a reason. Storybrooke is better off without her.

            It’s Killian on the guitar, — _of course it is_ — and she slows down to buy herself some time to decide whether or not she should let him know she’s there. He’s sitting on some rocks under the pier with his eyes closed, playing the same notes over and over like he’s both trying to purge them from his memory and commit them there for good. Emma’s just about to turn and start heading back the other way when he starts the song over to add vocals and his voice sends goosebumps down her arms. She was so sure he hadn’t seen her, but suddenly she’s compelled to stay, like somehow he _knows_ and is singing the song just for her.

            But then, everyone who’s ever heard Landslide thinks that it could be about them.

            “That was beautiful.” He jumps when she speaks just like every other time they’ve run into each other in town and she winces. “I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest even as she tries to keep the hair out of her face. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            Killian shifts to face her, taking the guitar strap off and laying the instrument across his legs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

            She should probably leave him alone, she thinks, but instead she steps closer and joins him under the pier. “You should be playing for people instead of waves. You’re good.”

            His fingers are tracing idle patterns on the body of the guitar and Emma’s eyes follow the swirling patterns as he shakes his head. “I was, once.”

            “I’ve heard a lot of average acts over the years,” she says. “Trust me, you’re still good. Fleetwood Mac, right?”

            Killian nods. “My, uh, my ex,” he explains, “She loved Stevie Nicks.”

            “She left you?” The question is out of her mouth before she can pull it back and she bites her lip to keep from prying further.

            “In a manner of speaking.” He meets her eyes finally and his shoulders drop. “She died. Car crash about eight months ago.”

            “I’m sorry,” she says, so much of what she knows about him finally clicking into place. “It’s not easy being the one left behind.”

            “Your boy’s father?”

            Emma huffs out an exhale at the thought that she could be so easy to read and flips her hair back over her shoulder. “Yeah. I mean, he didn’t die but… he’s gone.”

            It’s weird talking about Neal to someone who doesn’t already know how it ended — even Walsh only got the bare bones of the story and she’d known him for almost a year before finally giving in and telling him. So it’s strange and yet it somehow makes perfect sense, that they would jump from trying to undress each other in the backseat of her car to trading heartbreaks on the beach.

            “Listen, I wanted to apologize for the first time we, uh, met,” she says, kicking at the wet sand with the toe of her boot. “If I did anything to make you uncomfortable —”

            “Wasn’t you, love,” he cuts her off, grabbing his case from where it’s sitting behind him and carefully tucking the guitar away. “That one’s all on me.”

            Emma smiles a little, one more thing making sense, and tilts her head as she studies him. “You haven’t been with anyone since her, have you?”

            He barks out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “Was it that obvious?”

            “Well, y’know…”

            Killian chuckles again and she grins back, lifted by the change in mood. “Are you headed back to town?” he asks, climbing down from his perch and pulling the guitar with him.

            “Yeah, I probably should be,” she says.

            “May I walk you?”

            She raises an eyebrow at the question. “I’m a big girl, Killian. You don’t need to go out of your way.”

            “You’re staying at Granny’s right?” Emma nods and he tucks the thumb of his free hand into his pocket, gesturing with his guitar case up to the road. “I live next door. It’s hardly out of the way.”

            She watches him for a long moment, pulled between how much it feels just like that night at the bar and how it also feels very, very different, her thoughts of a meaningless summer fling quickly feeling like they’re being taken out by the tide.

            “Let me be a gentleman, love,” he says softly.

            He’s waiting for her and she so badly wants to roll her eyes at the word ‘gentleman’ but he’s being so fucking sincere that she has to take a breath.

            “Alright.”

* * *

            He hasn’t played in months, not since the crash took Milah from him, but the guitar feels as familiar to him now as it did when Liam presented it to him for his 16th birthday. Killian’s not sure what made him dig it out of the back of his closet and bring it down to the docks but it’s like an itch under his skin. He’d been watching Emma at the soccer game, wanting so badly to just go over and talk to her like an actual human being and not the fumbling sod that he apparently turns into when sober. But she hadn’t been sitting alone, had been with the _sheriff_ of all people, and he just… never summoned the nerve. By the time he’d taken Erik home and gotten back to the flat he’d needed _something_. Anything that might break him out of this damned holding pattern he’s been stuck in.

            Landslide was one of Milah’s favourites and it was a standard on their old set list. He knows that she put it in his head, and when he finishes the song to find Emma standing on the beach just a few feet away he can’t help but wonder what if she sent her to him as well. He didn’t think Emma was going to accept his offer to walk her back to town — she didn’t look like she was going to and he worried he might have pried too much when he asked about her ex — but as they leave the beach walking side-by-side a sense of surety settles in his chest. Like this is right. This is what he’s supposed to be doing.

            “So, how long have you been in Storybrooke?” Emma asks as they cut through the alley next to the old cannery.

            “Since the spring,” he replies. “My brother, Liam, asked me to come and help with the shop when his wife got sick.”

            “Wow, sick sister in-law, dead girlfriend… you’re just sunshine and rainbows, aren’t you?”

            He gives her a mock incredulous look and she bumps his shoulder with hers in response. He’s not offended — if anything, he finds her playful sarcasm refreshing.

            “Alright, what about you then?” he counters. “What brings you to this lovely seaside town?”

            “I dumped my fiancé after I caught him stealing from me.”

            Killian snorts at her candour and she flashes him a smile.

            “I’ve got family in town, sort of,” she adds by way of explanation. “My son, Henry, comes for two weeks every summer. I just tagged along.”

            _Two weeks_ , he thinks, but catches himself before disappointment can set in. She signed her son up for soccer and has taken over the icecream shop for Ingrid. She must be planning on staying longer than that this time around.

            “And where’s home when you’re not visiting?” Killian asks, choosing not to prod at this mention of a different ended relationship in favour of safer small-talk.

            A flicker of something passes over her face, but it’s quickly replaced. “Not sure yet.” She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jeans with a shrug. “Where’s home for you? When you’re not selling bait and tackle to grumpy fishermen, that is.”

            They’ve turned onto Main Street and Emma comes to a stop next to her ubiquitous yellow bug.

            Home was his mother, once. Then it was wherever Milah was. Liam is all the family he’s got left, but the town where his older brother settled down with a family of his own has always seemed like it’s missing something for Killian to consider it home. Still, it’s the best he’s got at the moment. And this moment, with her, is one he’s not willing to tarnish with his malaise.

            “Above all the bait and tackle, of course,” he says easily, nodding over to the shop.

            She rolls her eyes but smiles and Killian can’t help but turn so that he’s standing in front of her, raising an eyebrow and swaying just a little bit into her space. She’s right on the edge of the curb, the curve of her ass resting against the door that he tumbled out of not even a week ago. But he’s not thinking about how he fell apart at the sound of a passing ambulance. Not when he can be thinking about how easily they fell together instead.

            Emma’s eyes flick between his and he shuffles closer, setting his guitar down and leaning it up against the car. There’s a slight hitch in her breathing as he straightens and it keeps him from doing the honourable thing and stepping back. Killian remembers, vaguely, what it’s like to kiss her but all the drinks he’d had before and afterwards clouded his memory and this… this he wants to appreciate.

            When her tongue darts out to wet her lips he breaks, closing the last bit of distance between them. Their lips fuse on a sharp inhale and Killian crowds her up against the bug, cupping her face with his hand so he can brush his thumb against the apple of her cheek. Emma tugs him even closer and he goes eagerly, one hand landing on the car for support while the other snakes under her shirt to pull her in by the small of her back. She makes a sound in the back of her throat and her fingers are tugging on his hair and _God_ , he thinks, _why did he ever stop kissing her the last time_? She tastes faintly like ketchup and he chases her lips when they break for breath, wanting more.

            “Come up for a drink with me.”

            His voice is wrecked even to his own ears and he presses his head to hers like it might keep the earth from spinning.

            “I, um,” Emma starts, her face flushed pink. It might be the prettiest colour he’s ever seen and he has a sudden, vicious regret for not having been able to see her properly when she came around his fingers. “I don’t know.”

            Killian bows his head, his breathing still heavy as he takes a step back. “Aye, of course. I shouldn’t have presumed, I—” He cuts his rambling short. He will not look the fool in front of her. Not this time, at least. “Have a good evening,” he says instead, pasting on a tight-lipped smile.

            She stops his retreat with a hand on his arm and he looks up to meet her eyes. “Maybe, maybe I could take a rain check? It’s just… I’m not sure either one of us is actually ready to…”

            Emma trails off, though her hand gesture completes the sentence well enough. Killian understands, of course. His life is still mostly a mess, and falling into bed with someone is only ever uncomplicated in theory. She’s got her own troubles, plus her boy to think about...

            “It’s not a problem, love,” he says, managing to make his smile a little more genuine this time. “A rain check it is.”

            Emma gives him a pleased little smile, and he gives in to the urge to tuck away a stray piece of hair, letting his fingers trail down the shell of her ear before forcing himself to take another step back and turn to leave.

            “Hey, Jones?” she calls out as he’s about halfway to the shop. Killian turns to look back at her and she shifts on her feet a little before raising a hand in a half sort-of wave. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

            “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

            After the week he’s had, he doesn’t think he could not see her if he tried.


End file.
